A Thousand Small Cruelties
by Aenisses Thai
Summary: Christmas Eve. Dean is troubled by Castiel's recent aloofness...and he knows who is to blame.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, with special emphasis on Episodes 4 (The End) and 10 (Abandon All Hope)

**Warnings:** harsh language

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**A Thousand Small Cruelties** by Aenisses Thai

It's not really the sound of feathered wings flapping, nothing that earthbound or normal. It's more the lack of sound, as if a black hole had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, sucking up background noise and peripheral light until, finally, Earth physics reasserts itself to push heavenly energy into matter with a faint whoosh.

_Frost and lightning,_ thinks Dean, automatically shifting over on the stoop to make room for the angel. His invitation goes unanswered, so he twists around.

Castiel stands several feet behind him on the porch, taking the concept of personal space to its furthest limits. He appears absorbed in studying the nearest tower of stacked wrecks in Bobby's junkyard, their jagged edges softened with a thin coating of snow. "Hello, Dean."

It's the same greeting every time they meet, but somehow it sounds flatter, more tentative than usual. Dean frowns. "What's wrong?"

Castiel's eyes flash to Dean's, then downward for a brief moment before he goes back to contemplating the wonder of rusting metal. "Nothing. You asked me to come. I'm here."

Dean opens his mouth, then shakes his head. "Whatever. Pull up a seat, grab a beer."

Castiel glances around the porch, currently empty of either chairs or alcoholic beverages, then at Dean, his eyes wary and lips parted in what Dean has mentally dubbed Castiel's "Babelfish on the fritz" expression.

Dean sighs, a soft exhalation of steam in the chill air, and thumps his boot against the stoop, trying to make his invitation clear.

He fails.

"What do you want?" Castiel remains standing, hands now shoved in pockets.

His deliberate distance, both physical and emotional, starts getting to Dean, sending little cracks scrying across his outward joviality. "Do you know what today is?"

"Thursday. Is that all you needed?" Castiel removes his hands from his pockets, and suddenly there's a slight pressure on Dean's eardrums, a gust of wind as if the air itself is shifting, a portal opening—

"Wait! No! That's not the point! It's Christmas Eve, Cas—you know, the night before the Big Guy's son's birthday? Frosted cookies, caroling, midnight mass with people singing about angels all night long? Though this year, they oughta be singing, 'Dicks with Wings We've Heard on High, Bringing On the End of Days.'"

The quip falls flat, his voice too laced with bitterness to draw any humor out of the words. Makes no difference; Cas doesn't get the joke, anyway, and his silence is accompanied by another "broken Babelfish" expression.

But Dean is nothing if not stubborn, so he grits his teeth and carefully paints a smartass grin across his features as he stands up to face Castiel. "Dude, you have to get with the program. What's God gonna say if he finds out you dissed his favorite kid's birthday celebration?" His voice sharpens. "By the way, how's the almighty mission going? You find Him yet? And can I have my necklace back?"

"No."

Dean's starting to get pissed off, not so much at Castiel's refusal to return the amulet, but at his uncommunicative attitude. All right, fine, Dean knows damn well who's to blame for that, but it doesn't make him any less irritated. It does, however, make him bite back another pointed jibe. No need to dig the hole any deeper.

"Cas, I called to ask if you wanted…look, me and Sam drove out here 'cause it's Christmas Eve, and we didn't want Bobby to be alone. And I thought that maybe you didn't want… that you might like to, I dunno, do the whole 'chestnuts roasting on the open fire, presents round the tree' thing with us."

Shit! What is with him and his compulsive quoting of carol lyrics all of a sudden?

At least Castiel's finally looking at him, a line between his brows as he works the lyrics through his English-to-Angel translation program. "You wish me to get you a present."

"No! Shit, Cas, I'm not angling for swag! I just thought…you know, chestnuts…" _Oh, for Chrissakes, stop with the damn lyrics already!_

"You want chestnuts."

This would almost be funny if it weren't so damn pathetic. Dean takes a step towards Castiel, and the angel takes a step back. Suddenly Dean's temper flares. If Cas wants to act like a chick with a grudge, so be it, but he'd better not expect Dean to play along.

"Look, if you don't want to spend Christmas with us lowly humans, that's fine! Go do whatever angels do on Christmas—gank a demon to hang on your tree or something!"

The screen door slams open behind him, and he jumps, cursing out loud. Just what he needs, his brother chiming in with some smartass remark. In the slight commotion, Castiel does a runner, leaving the porch empty except for Winchesters. Dean sets his jaw, ready to take on whatever shit Sam decides to dish out.

Instead, his brother just stalks past him holding a whisky bottle. He unscrews the cap and silently pours the amber liquid over the rail onto the icy ground below.

Dean hears a string of curses echoing from within the house, and cocks an eyebrow at Sam. "Waste of good Jack."

"s'not Jack," says Sam. "Cheap crap good for nothing but bad hangovers. I told Bobby he wasn't spending Christmas drunk and alone."

"For which he's grateful, I'm sure." The curses fade to a discontented grumbling accompanied by a squeak and thump of wheels as Bobby takes his temper out on his furniture.

Sam shrugs. "Family trait, gratitude. Speaking of, I'm guessing that was Cas you were just yelling at."

"Yeah, and?" Dean scowls, not liking what Sam's getting at with that crack about gratitude.

"_And_ I kinda wished I caught him. We haven't seen him more than ten minutes total for the past few weeks, not since…not since Carthage."

Goddamn Sam and his goddamn need to 'talk things out', like he's on fuckin Oprah twenty-four-seven. Dean doesn't want to hear about Carthage, he doesn't even want to think about that godforsaken hellhole, not until, well, ever (_but that doesn't stop Carthage from haunting his dreams every goddamn night_).

He scowls harder and turns away to lean on the railing, but his brother doesn't get the message and keeps on yakking. "I would've liked to have wished Cas a Merry Christmas, all things considered."

"Since when have you and Cas gotten so chummy?" and Dean does not sound like a jealous bitch, not in the least.

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe since Carthage. You know, that time he saved my ass from Lucifer." Sam's not even bothering to try to hide his sarcasm; hell, he's even scratching his head sarcastically (_and yeah, it's possible to scratch one's head sarcastically, 'cause he's seeing it with his own two eyes_). "Come to think of it, he saved your ass from Lucifer, too."

Two can play at this game. "Come on, Sam, don't hold back. Tell me what you're really thinking."

Sam turns to face him, and Dean's startled by the fierceness of his expression. "I overheard what you just said, how you basically told Cas to throw himself under a bus. What is your problem, man? I mean, I know what your problem is, but why would you take it out on Cas?"

"Whoa, whoa!" Dean gets right up in Sam's face. "What the hell are you talking about? I never—"

"You told him to go gank a demon when you know damn well he can't do that anymore! What an asshole thing to say! If he takes you literally—and we both know how literal Cas is—you just told him to go risk his life. What were you thinking?" Sam suddenly grabs Dean's arm. "Hey! What the hell, Dean? You just went dead white!"

Dean knows he ought to shake off Sam's hand, but right now, he's not sure his legs will hold him up. "What do you mean?" he asks in a hoarse whisper. "What makes you think Cas can't gank demons? Since when?"

"Since the night after Carthage. Listen, maybe you'd better come inside and sit down; you look like you're about to pass out."

"'M not a chick, goddamnit!" This time, Dean pulls away from Sam's supporting hand. Good thing the porch rail is right behind him. He leans as casually as he can against the rail and crosses his arms (_to hide his trembling hands_). "So spill. What's all this shit about Cas and demons?" He's proud that his voice sounds halfway normal instead of freaked out.

Sam rubs his hands up and down his flannel-covered arms, his shirt scant protection against the evening's chill. "Can we go inside to talk about this?"

"Sam."

"Fine. I talked to him right after Ellen and J—that same night, when he brought us back here. He told me Lucifer had trapped him in one of those fire circles. Lucifer left Meg to guard Cas while he went to do the Death-summoning thing, and Cas somehow managed to knock her into the circle, where he tried to gank her the angel way. Didn't work; seems that heaven has cut off that part of his mojo."

Another chill runs through Dean, and he can almost smell the stale, burnt air of 2014. "So how did he get out?"

"He was kind of vague about that; said something about the size difference between male and female humans, and a demon making an unexpected bridge to salvation."

"Hah!" Dean gets a clear picture, and feels vicious satisfaction at the thought of Cas stomping the bitch that set the hellhounds on Jo…on them. Still wishes he'd done it himself, but this is almost as good.

"Dean." Sam is shivering, but he keeps his voice steady in spite of the cold. "I don't know what happened between you and Cas, but it's clear that something's wrong, and has been since the night Jo and Ellen died. I'm not going to lecture you, but I'll say this much." He jabs a finger in Dean's chest. "_Fix it._ Cas is not only twenty-five percent of our pathetically small Save the World Club," Sam makes a jerky gesture indicating the house and porch, "he's still the strongest of us, even at half-mojo. So pull your head out of your ass and catch a little daylight for once."

He slams back into the house, provoking another round of curses from Bobby, the word "idjit" reaching a particularly high volume. However, Sam's apparently suffered enough fools for one night, because he yells right back that Bobby is only allowed either tea or cocoa, so he should just shut up and choose.

"Merry fuckin Christmas," Dean mutters to himself as he fumbles for his cell. He hates it when his little brother's right, but he has no time to indulge his stupid pride; he's got to get Cas back here pronto.

'_Need to talk to you. Stay away from demons. Get back here ASAP._' He pauses, firmly shoves his ego down, and finished the text message with, _'Please.'_

He sets the phone to both ring and vibrate, and places it in his inside coat pocket. Leaning over the porch rail, he clasps his hands together and thinks back to five weeks ago, when things had gone so disastrously wrong.

/-/-/

It's the dead of night, and that phrase had never before seemed so appropriate: Jo dead, Ellen dead, Bobby dead-drunk, and Sam dead to the world, exhausted by his latest confrontation with Lucifer.

Dean had wanted to know what kind of shit the Devil was flinging at his brother to get him to cave, but Sam wasn't talking. "For God's sake, Dean, you think you can give me a little space to mourn Ellen and Jo before you start in on our trust issues again? Fuck!" With that, Sam had pulled his pillow over his head and drawn his knees up so his feet quit hanging off the end of the twin bed in the room they'd shared as kids. Dean got the message.

So he spends the next twenty minutes trying to fall asleep, but each time he closes his eyes, red flares behind his eyelids: the thick, pulsing red of blood gushing from a gut wound, the searing red of a nighttime explosion.

His entire life is painted in shades of hellfire.

Giving up, he throws off the covers and stumbles out of the room, needing to get distance from his nightmares. The floor undulates lazily beneath his feet in the nauseating No-Man's-Land between drunkenness and the oncoming hangover.

_Snick-snick-snick-snick-snick._

The rhythmic clicking is coming from Bobby's kitchen downstairs—too sharp and distinct to be a dripping faucet, too regular to be a foraging mouse. Dean retrieves Ruby's knife from the bedroom, then moves hunter-silent down the old staircase.

He'd really love to find something to kill right now, maybe that bastard Crowley or smirking Meg. Maybe even goddamn Lucifer himself. None of those are likely, though, not with the wards Bobby has encircling his house, both inside and out.

So he's not all that surprised to see Castiel sitting alone in Bobby's kitchen. Nah, it's not Castiel's presence that punches the air out of his lungs—it's his actions.

Castiel is wiping the liquid sheen of a tequila shot from his lips with the back of one hand before setting the shot glasses upright in a row (_snick-snick-snick-snick-snick,_ the sound of crystal meeting wood) and pouring the liquor across all five glasses in a smooth motion even Ellen would approve of. Yet there's something in the set of his shoulders, something lost, defeated (_eerily familiar_) that makes Dean want to _scream._

"What the hell?" he snarls instead, grimly satisfied when Castiel startles and misses the last glass, splashing liquor onto the table. Wide blue eyes rimmed with red meet his—and Dean loses it.

His vision blurs, and suddenly he sees Cas sitting before him, grubby and unkempt, boots up on the table and glass in hand as he flashes that empty, mocking grin, his eyes bleeding, bleeding (_blue rimmed with red)_ loss, pain, loneliness, despair. Dean's gut clenches, and fear turns to terror turns to anger and accusation as words erupt from his throat like acid, like knives, like sharp-edged chunks of bile. He barely knows what he's saying: something about _Why did you leave them?_ and _left us facing hellhounds alone!_ and _Now they're dead_—

—and he wishes he could shut himself up, because this is all so pointless. The fucking Colt doesn't fucking work and they've got no Plan B, other than dying bloody. Even that would almost be acceptable, except it wasn't them who died bloody but sweet Jo and fierce Ellen, and _where the fuck is the justice in that, huh? What's God's master plan—for me to watch every single person I ever cared for blasted the fuck out of existence? Well, fuck that and fuck God, and fuck you too, Cas, if you're just gonna sit there and let it happen!_

But Castiel isn't really sitting with his boots up on the table; he's standing military straight in his crisp tan trenchcoat, jaw tight and eyes staring past Dean, like a soldier getting dressed down by his superior officer (_like Dean getting yelled at by his father_). Suddenly Dean is _thisclose _to breaking down, and it won't be controlled tears this time but big, girly sobs, and he doesn't want Cas to see, so,

"Get the fuck outta here," he chokes, and Castiel does.

It isn't until Dean gets himself back under control that he finally focuses on the table before him. The first things he notices are two tequila shots placed across from the five that Castiel had poured for himself. He vaguely remembers some kind of drinking game going on last night _(two lifetimes ago)—_Jo's carefree laugh, Ellen's sardonic drawl, the low rumble of Castiel's reply, attentive and curious—and he realizes that what he interrupted wasn't a binge, but a memorial service for two lost friends.

"Cas," he whispers, but the angel is long gone.

/-/-/

Time limps by one dragging second after another, and still Castiel doesn't appear. Dean is past being merely cold; he's numb, his fingers stiff inside his old wool gloves, his exhalations growing thicker in the frosty air. But he sets his stance and glares into the darkening sky, determined to wait outside until Castiel returns.

Yeah, it's true that there are anti-angel sigils painted on the outside of Bobby's house, sigils that must be broken before Castiel can enter the house and re-painted immediately afterwards, but that's not the reason Dean's staying put. After all, Cas could simply phone him if he found himself locked out.

Maybe part of this is a weird need for penance for his behavior towards Cas that night five weeks ago, but mostly, he wants to stay here because it's quiet and dark, and he needs to think things through.

There's been precious little time for him to think about anything these past few weeks, hell, this past year. From the time he dug his way out of his grave to now, his life has been nothing but reacting to all the shit that keeps coming at him, an endless river of shit that keeps him flailing just to stay afloat—and if that sounds like a crap analogy, just try living it.

However, if there's one good thing that's happened to him, it's Castiel. No, Dean's not going all girly Hallmark card. If the angel had done nothing other than drag him out of Hell, it still would've been more than anyone else in his life has done for him, including his father.

Castiel didn't stop with that one favor, though. He's saved Dean's life a number of times since then, protected Sam for him, and lost everything he ever knew for their sake—and for his trouble, he's received a shitload of backtalk and mockery, a handful of 'thank you's', and a total of zero apologies.

Dean stops in the middle of blowing a stream of warm air into his cupped hands. Has he really never apologized to Cas, not even once? That's fuckin weird. Not that apologies are ever easy, but he doesn't seem to have much trouble saying, "I'm sorry" to Sam or Bobby, even if those guys share part of the blame for whatever he's apologizing to them for.

The realization hits him like a blow. That's exactly why he's never apologized to Cas. Whatever he's done to Cas—calling him names, denigrating his Father, getting him_ killed_—Cas has never deserved it. It's shame that keeps Dean from owning up to his mistakes with the angel…and if it's taken him this long to realize it, then Castiel must be even more in the dark. So why does he put up with Dean's behavior?

Because he doesn't know he deserves any better.

It's all fucking there, and Dean can't avoid it any longer, the memory of that painful conversation, a dark night five years in the future.

.

_I'm human…practically human. I mean, Dean, I'm all but useless…_

_Now I'm powerless. I'm hapless, I'm hopeless…why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence? Right? Sad, maybe…but that's what decadence is for._

_.  
_

Dean's still not sure what that vision of 2014 really was—a construct made just for the purpose of mind-fucking him into obedience? A possible real future, one out of a hundred possible futures? The one and only unavoidable conclusion to his story?

No, he's not accepting that last one; if he's gonna give in to that possibility, he might as well take the Colt and shoot himself in the head right now. But the one thing he can't deny is how right Zachariah had gotten some things, probably without even realizing it.

Yeah, Dean's pretty sure that Zach was pleased with his fucked-up version of Castiel; that pompous douchebag would like nothing better than to see his former subordinate brought so low. But there were other truths about Castiel in 2014 that seemed too deep for Zach to have grasped: the fact that Castiel hadn't deserted Dean, no matter how bleak things had gotten. The fact that he didn't hesitate to stand by Dean, even if he thought the plan to kill Lucifer was stupid and suicidal. The fact that he always put Dean's well-being first.

.

_Are you coming?_

_Of course. But why is he? I mean, he's you five years ago. Something happens to him, you're gone._

_.  
_

Dean paces up and down Bobby's porch, dragging his hand over his mouth again and again, trying to keep from…something.

He's been so goddamned obsessed with the Sam and Luci Show that he couldn't see the other disaster bearing down on him, the disaster he's personally bringing to pass. Sure, Sam's the most important thing in his life, but he's not the only thing.

And while Dean knows full well that Castiel v.2014 is something that haunts his nightmares, until now he'd thought that drugs and women and angels deserting the earth were what would bring Cas down. He never thought it would be himself.

It's so goddamn clear. It's not one big thing that could make Castiel think so little of himself, value himself only as a weapon and not as a person or a friend. It's a thousand small cruelties—mocking him for not knowing pop culture, treating his faith with disdain, denying him thanks or apologies, assigning blame to him for things that Lucifer brings about—it's those cruelties that will eventually drive Cas into becoming the lost, lonely creature Dean met in 2014.

Still loyal to him, though. Still so fuckin loyal, even after everything. Even unto death.

A gust of wind sends ice crystals swirling through the air, and Dean wipes tears from his face, gloves rough against his skin. Wind-tears, that's all they are, from the fuckin ice and snow. He's not crying, 'cause he's got no reason to cry. None of that shit is gonna come to pass. He'll stop it, just like he'll stop Sam from giving in to Lucifer.

It'll be simple with Cas; all he has to do is think before he speaks. Quit lashing out at the one he knows will never desert him. Quit being so damn scared of friendship, of caring, of lo—

Quit being so damn scared.

The gust of wind strikes him again and he shivers, feeling his ears pop.

"Hello, Dean."

Something in him releases, and he lets it happen, lets the smile spread across his face, warm and wide and genuine, as he turns around.

"Hey, Cas."

_/-/-/_

_To be continued_

_/-/-/_


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, with special emphasis on Episodes 4 (The End) and 10 (Abandon All Hope)

**Warnings:** harsh language

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Chapter 2.**

Castiel sits with one of Bobby's old texts balanced on his knees as he uses a cinnamon stick to poke suspiciously at the mound of whipped cream floating on top of his cider.

"Yeah, mix it in like that, Cas. Then you know what's good? Drinking it through the cinnamon stick like a straw, but don't do that just yet. I think it's still too hot." Dean is not hovering, not really; he just doesn't want Castiel to burn his mouth and decide that hot cider sucks. 'Cause apple cider is awesome.

There's a snort from the direction of the kitchen. Dean sighs and goes over to deal with his brother. Gotta nip this shit in the bud.

Sure enough, Sam's standing just out of Castiel's line of sight, wearing Concerned Bitchface No. 52, but Dean can see the smartass smirk lurking around he edges. "Got a problem, Sammy?"

"Not me. It's you—you forgot this." Sam brandishes a teaspoon. "For spoonfeeding your angel. Give me a moment, and I'll find you a burp cloth."

"Fuck you, bitch. You're the one who was griping just an hour ago that I was a dick to Cas. Now that I'm being nicer to him, you've got your princess panties all bunched up around your neck."

"Look, Dean, most human behavior falls into this thing called a continuum. Normal people would've started out with a little more consideration, maybe even friendliness. Not you, though: you jump straight from being a dick to creepy angel-stalking, stopping just short of inappropriate touches—er, there hasn't been any inappropriate touching yet, has there?"

"Laugh it up, asswipe. Glad to see you're enjoying this." Dean scowls at Sam's smirk, but there's no real anger behind it. Maybe because for the first time in weeks, things feel a little more normal between him and Sam. Between him and the world.

"Oh, I'm having a party, but the question is, what about Cas? I think you're making him uncomfortable."

Dean leans back to glance into the living room. Castiel has dispensed with the cinnamon stick and is setting the mug on the side table, his tongue darting out to clean the whipped cream from his lip. He turns a page and frowns slightly at the text. Dean stares, mesmerized for a moment, before he remembers that Sam is watching him watch Cas.

"Shut up," he warns, flushing. "Cas is fine; I'm fine; you're mental, but we all were told decades ago to treat you like a norm, so fa-la-la-la-la yourself, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replies amiably, and there's a brief slap fight between them before Bobby rolls in, clipping their ankles with his wheels.

"Idjits," Bobby growls around their yelps of pain. "Either one of you princesses thought about starting dinner, or didja think you'd just bring groceries and leave me to do all the work?" He glares as they hang their heads and shuffle their feet. "That's what I thought. Dean, light the stove and pull that damn turkey-with-gravy crap outta the freezer. Looks like cat food, but since you boys brought it, you better cook it. Sam, get the pot out and start the instant mashed potatoes—don't give me that stupid look, boy! If you can put together a damn summoning spell, you can follow the directions on a box of potatoes! Chuckleheads."

Dean hides his smile as he crouches down and touches his lighter flame to the pilot light. Bobby sounds like his normal crotchety self, which is a damn sight better than the deadness in his eyes and voice earlier today. All-in-all, this is shaping up to be the best Christmas Dean has had in years, if not ever. It might also be his last Christmas, but he refuses to let that drag him down. In his experience, last Christmases can be pretty damn cool.

Thinking back, he automatically reaches for the amulet around his neck and is slightly startled, as always, when it isn't there. His mind jumps to Castiel and his God-quest and—

"Where the hell d'ya think you're going?" Bobby brandishes a can of jellied cranberry sauce at Dean. "Don't think you're getting out of your share of the work here."

"Just gonna check on Cas real quick. We've been ignoring him, and I want to make sure he hasn't—" Dean flutters his fingers.

"Carrying on like a hen with one chick, ya damn fool. Stay put; I'll get your angel for you." Bobby wheels himself to the doorway, making Dean dodge out of his way, and raises his voice above Sam's guffaw. "Hey, Wings! Getcher ass in here and help out!" He glares in the direction of his living room. "If that angel's spilled anything on my books, I swear I'll—"

"I haven't."

Castiel's voice comes from behind them, where he's now watching Sam put water in a battered metal measuring cup. Sam startles and drops the cup in the sink, while Bobby flinches in his seat, muttering imprecations under his breath. Dean grins, tickled to see someone else freaked out by Castiel's habit of popping up in unexpected places.

Bobby recovers quickly, however, wheeling aggressively toward Castiel and aiming directly, Dean swears, for the toes of his polished black shoes. He almost calls out a warning, but it's too late: Bobby's wheelchair fetches up against the sink cabinet with a firm thump, and Castiel's shoes—

—are a safe two inches away from the wheels. Hmph. Dean didn't see Castiel move, and apparently, neither did Bobby. Bobby doesn't miss a beat, though, shoving the can of cranberry sauce and a manual can-opener against the midsection of the trench coat. "Get cooking, boy."

Castiel stares down at the unfamiliar objects in his hands. "Angels don't cook."

"Rebel angels who spend Christmas with decrepit old hunters and idjit young hunters do. So get cracking, and no more backtalk."

Only Bobby could treat a multimillennia-old Warrior of God like a juvenile delinquent, Dean reflects. Well, Bobby and himself, to be honest. In fact, the only one here who has treated Castiel with anything close to respect is Sam, who was probably inspired by the whole "smite you into your next life" attitude.

Right now, however, the only thing that Castiel looks as if he might smite is the canned cranberry sauce. Dean takes a step forward to show him how to operate the can opener but is stopped in his tracks by a glare from Bobby.

Castiel studies the can opener with the same rapt attention he gives to ancient texts. Lifting it up to eye level, he sights along it as if it were the barrel of a gun—then slams it down exactly on the edge of the can, spinning the crank with two fingers and sending the can into a rapid rotation until the lid pops free. He inverts the can into a bowl, applies the opener to the bottom, and removes that lid as well before pulling the can up with a quick flick of his wrist. A ruby-red cylinder of cranberry sauce stands quivering in the exact center of the bowl.

Silence.

"Show-off," Bobby mutters at last, reversing his wheelchair and once again failing to run over Castiel's shoes despite his best efforts. "Dinner better be ready in an hour!"

/-/-/

Dean stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. Life is good at the moment—and yeah, maybe only for this moment, but he's learned through hard experience to savor these brief time-outs from the Apocalyptic shitstorm. Dinner was pretty good, even if it wasn't anything Martha Stewart would've moistened her silkies over. Contrary to Bobby's dire predictions, the turkey slices had turned out surprisingly tasty. Cas had whipped the sodden mess of instant mashed potatoes into light fluffiness, and Sam's prissy addition of steamed asparagus had been rescued from hopeless wholesomeness by dumping a big hunk of butter on it. ("You just ruined the one healthy dish we had, Dean!" "Hey, loosen up, Samantha. Vitamins're still gonna be there under the butter.")

Adding even more to the evening's enjoyment is the entertaining spectacle of Sam trying to decorate a small live tree with ancient Christmas lights he's found in Bobby's attic. Sam is assisted by Castiel, whose role appears to be observing closely as Sam keeps shocking himself with wires that end up exposed when the cracked insulation flakes off.

"Ow! Goddamn—I mean, goshdarn it! Shut up, Dean, this isn't funny!"

"Nah, it's not funny; it's freaking hilarious!"

"Hey, if you think you can do a better job—"

Castiel picks up two strings of lights, examining them closely. "I believe I've located the problem."

"No, Cas, don't touch those wires together!"

Too late. A fountain of gold and green sparks shoots up from Castiel's hands, and the entire house immediately plunges into darkness, accompanied by the acrid scent of overheated metal.

"We under attack, boys?" Bobby shouts from the back room.

"No, Bobby, it's just us and the Christmas lights—I think we blew a fuse."

That's all that's needed for Bobby to let out a string of expletives expounding on the relative IQs of idiot Winchester boys and their crackpot angel companions.

Dean would be amused under normal circumstances, but he has more immediate concerns. "Cas! Cas, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." The low voice is a lot closer than Dean expected, and he jumps a little. "However, my fingers have a strange smell."

"You probably burned them, you dummy. Here, let me get some ointment from my kit, just as soon as I find the flashlight."

"It doesn't matter, Dean. They will heal soon enough."

Another voice joins in from across the room. "How about Sam? Is Sam all right? Yeah, Dean, thanks for asking. Nice to know my brother's so worried about my fate."

"Ah, stop your bitching, princess; I could tell from your emo breathing that you were okay."

"Emo this, jerk." A large light spins towards him, winking in and out as it rotates through the darkness, but Dean has Winchester reflexes, so he easily snatches the flashlight from midair. "Your turn to replace the fuses," Sam finishes smugly.

Dean opens his mouth to argue in their usual way, but for once his brain kicks in first, and he thinks, yeah, he really doesn't want to send Sam down to the fuse box, which is located right next to the safe room. "All right, bitch, but then you gotta do this: go out to the Impala and get a roll of electrical tape from her trunk. That's the way _smart_ people deal with cracked wires, college boy." Ignoring Sam's muttered insults, he tugs at Castiel's sleeve. "C'mon, Cas, it's time you learned to change a fuse."

The lesson takes less than five minutes, mostly due to Bobby's habit of leaving replacement fuses taped to the inside of the box with small, neat labels indicating which fuses go where. Contrary to its surface chaos, Bobby's house is, in reality, as carefully catalogued as a university library. In fact, university libraries could use someone as knowledgeable and organized as Bobby Singer, although the thought of the old hunter in his trucker's cap sitting behind a circulation desk while calling all the students "idjits" makes Dean smirk.

"Okay, Cas, flick the wall switch, and let's see how it goes." He points the flashlight beam at the nearest light switch. Castiel does as requested, and the overhead lights come on, illuminating all the dark corners of the basement.

"Excellent work," Castiel approves, and Dean grins, because yeah, mark down 'changing fuses' as yet another thing he's awesome at.

Sam's heavy footsteps creak on the floorboards overhead, Castiel turns toward the basement steps, and Dean is suddenly reminded of something he sucks at, something he really doesn't want to do. But he'd promised himself earlier tonight that the moment he got some time alone with Cas, he was gonna suck it up and apologize for the way he'd treated him—and it looks like now is his only chance.

"Hey, Cas, wait a minute. I wanted to talk to you…" The words stick in his throat, and he swallows hard.

"About the deaths of Joanna and Ellen Harvelle," Castiel finishes.

Dean pauses, reminded firmly that however naïve Castiel may be about certain human customs, he's far from stupid—in fact, he's sharp and intuitive on a scale that far surpasses almost anyone Dean's ever known, and that includes Sam.

"Yeah, about that," he replies huskily. "Cas, I wanted to say—"

"I'm sorry." Castiel has turned so that he's face-to-face with Dean, and there's something in his expression that's fierce and fearful at the same time. Dean stares at him, thrown by the emotion in his face, and for once, Castiel is the first to look away.

"In my previous life, my existence was guided by orders." He glances at the safe room door, then quickly looks away, ending up staring down at his shoes. "My fellow soldiers and I felt joy when we succeeded, sorrow when we lost a brother or sister to battle. But we never felt—Orders came from Heaven, which made them just. Made us just." He pauses as if searching for the right words.

"Cas, no, listen, I gotta tell you—"

"Dean."

It's only a single word, but Dean hears Castiel's unspoken command, and shuts up.

Castiel licks his lips before continuing, one hand clenched around the edge of his trench coat. "Now I make my own choices. At times, wrong choices. I've learned to feel regret for my actions." He finally lifts his eyes and meets Dean's gaze directly, his words heavy, weighted with sorrow. "I shouldn't have left them. Had I remained with Ellen and Joanna, they might still be alive. I offer my apologies, for what they're worth." Very softly. "For what little they're worth."

Anger lances through Dean like lightning, and he curls his hands into fists to keep from grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattle. He knows the only thing that would achieve is bruised hands for himself, but the idea is still tempting, so he deals by lashing out in his usual way. "I've never heard such complete and utter bullshit in my life!"

Castiel straightens and turns away to glare at the basement stairs, his jaw tight—and damn it, Dean rages, if this isn't a fucking replay of five weeks ago, and fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ but he's fucking this up again, and the pressure's building in his head and in his ears—

He leaps forward and grabs Castiel by both lapels. "Don't you dare disappear on me, goddamnit! And look at me when I'm talking to you! Your apologies aren't worth shit, because you have nothing to apologize for! When are you gonna get it through your thick angel skull that none of this is your fault? And yeah, I get it: I was the one who threw that crap at you in the first place, but you oughta know by now when I'm talking shit! Goddamnit, Cas, can't you see? Lucifer killed Jo and Ellen, Lucifer and Meg and the fucking hellhounds!" _And me, maybe, because I was the one who took them there in the first place, with one crappy plan and no exit strategy._

That isn't the point he's trying to make, so he takes a deep breath, keeping his death grip on Castiel's lapels like he can keep an angel from flying away with the strength of his hands alone. "You gotta listen to me. This is the way Lucifer works: he does his evil shit and kills the ones we care about, but he doesn't stop there. He makes us feel lost and alone and inadequate, so we turn on each other and cut ourselves off. We finish the job for him—and we can't afford to do that. We can't let him win. At least not this way."

"I've known of Lucifer and his strategies much longer than you, Dean; you don't need to explain him to me."

Dean lets go of Castiel's lapels, relieved now that the angel is talking to him again. "Okay, fine. Then stop playing into his hands by taking responsibility for his crap. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to listen to you taking the blame for events you had no control over?"

"Yes."

"No, I don't think you do; otherwise you wouldn't keep doing it! Honestly, if I have to listen to one more, 'I'm sorry for all the bad things I couldn't prevent, 'cause I'm somehow responsible for the shit every evil bastard is out there wreaking on the world', I think I might scream."

"I understand."

There's something in Castiel's reply, almost pointed in his tone…Dean stops and looks hard at him, at the apparently guileless blue gaze with just the slightest lift of one eyebrow. "Oh, no, you sneaky sonofabitch, we are _not_ talking about me! This is about you and your problems with perspective, with—" and Dean knows he's blustering and should just shut up, but really, he's got to set Cas straight.

However, that's hard to do when Castiel moves right up into his face, barely a hands-breadth between their noses _(proving once and for all that Dean's lectures on personal space mean fuck-all to the angel_) until the only thing Dean can see is that intense stare boring into him, through him. "I've lost many of my abilities, but I can still see into you."

Dean realizes he's holding his breath, just as he had that long-ago night when Castiel had frightened him so badly with threats of throwing him back into Hell. Now it seems laughable that Dean had believed him; it's been a long time since he was scared of Castiel in that way, so why is his heart pounding so hard?

Castiel's eyes widen a fraction of an inch. "I see your pain, your guilt…and I feel the same reflected in me. If you are responsible for Lucifer's actions, then I am even moreso. If I'm not responsible, then neither are you."

"It's not that simple, Cas." Why the hell does his voice sound so small, so choked? "I'm the one who broke the first seal, remember?"

"And I'm the one who was sent to retrieve you before you could do so. Two full garrisons of angels, powerful beyond anything Hell had seen in millennia, yet I never once questioned how we could lose so many of us, how the demons knew to set up ambushes and wards against our surprise attack. Now I am filled with doubt. Were we betrayed to Lilith? Was it Uriel, my brother who fought beside me? Was it Zachariah? All I know for certain is that it took us twice as long as expected to reach you, for which you paid in agony and blood, and the world in the breaking of the first seal."

Dean remains silent, because it's too much to wrap his mind around: the battle between angels and demons in the bowels of Hell for the possession of his miserable soul. He thinks of Castiel trapped down there, caught between his orders and death, fighting, fighting, and for what? Did Castiel suspect that the one whom he 'gripped tight and raised from perdition' would repay that act by getting him cast out from everything he'd ever known?

"Stop it." Castiel is still up in his face, but this time with added 'I will smite thee' in his eyes. "You're right; self-recrimination is highly annoying to listen to."

"Oh, yeah? Well, try listening to your own silent treatment some time!" and okay, that statement made absolutely no sense, but Dean's not about to stop now that they're clearing the air between them.

It's weird, but the air really does feel clearer in his lungs, as if some constricting band around his chest is loosening, as if some magical mojo is working inside him, soothing him…He narrows his eyes at Cas, who looks wholly innocent as he steps back out of Dean's personal space. "Yeah, now I know for certain. The annoying one is definitely you."

"No, you."

Dean blinks. "Dude, did you just—Sam taught you to say that, didn't he?"

"Yes." Castiel's eyes are tilted up in his "Aren't I a sneaky angel?" expression, and Dean feels like grabbing him and—

—shaking that silly expression off his face. Yeah, shaking him, that's what he was thinking. Hm.

The upshot is that things seem good again between him and Castiel. However, he's well aware that Castiel let him off the hook far too easily, and that's not necessarily a good thing. If there's anything Dean knows, it's his own shortcomings. He can shoot off his mouth in hurtful ways, and it'd be nice if Cas could help him out by stopping him before he goes too far. A thought occurs to him. "Do you know the biggest difference between you and Sam?"

Castiel crinkles his nose slightly. "That he is human and I'm an angel?"

"No! I mean, yeah, all right, technically it's the biggest difference, but that's not my point. It's your behavior. When I start doing shit like lashing out the way I did after Carthage, instead of taking it, Sam calls me on it."

"He phones you."

Dean rubs three fingers against his brow and forces a patient tone. "No, he tells me to my face that I'm being a dick. You need to learn to do that whenever I'm unfair to you."

Castiel tilts his head just the slightest bit and parts his lips, and fuck if Dean doesn't feel this weird contraction in his chest, warm somehow, and—all right, now he's getting so chick-like that he's about to sprout boobs, so he'd better say something fast. "Say it, Cas. Say, 'Dean, you're being a dick.'"

More head tilt. "But you're not."

"I know, but this is practice. Try it. 'Dean, you're being a dick.' C'mon, you can do it."

"I don't need to practice."

"Yes, you do. Say it! Say—"

"Dean, you're being a total dick." Sam is standing at the top of the stairs. "Now stop being a dick and let poor Cas out of the basement; Christmas Eve is almost over, and I'm going to bed. We're all going to bed…except maybe Cas." He looks uncertain. "Not that you can't go to bed, Cas; I'm not sure if you need to sleep, but you're welcome to stay and if you _want _to go to bed, you can use mine, and I'll—"

"I don't believe it. My brother is propositioning an angel of the Lord on Christmas Eve."

"Shut up, Dean." Sam is making Bitchface No. 12, which is one of Dean's favorites, so this is turning out to be a pretty awesome Christmas already.

"Hey, I'm just trying to save your ass. I don't particularly want to wake up on Christmas morning to find out my little brother got married to my angel during the night—" and oh shit, he's done it now. Sam's smirking at full force, and he's probably gonna run straight upstairs and write in his pink diary with the heart-shaped lock, 'Nyah, nyah, Dean called Cas _his _angel', then send Dean a reminder every week with flowers doodled all over it.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of stealing from my brother," Sam says in his earnest voice, ignoring Dean's upraised middle finger. "Have fun, you two," and leaves, parting shot accomplished.

Dean sneaks a peek at Castiel who, unsurprisingly, looks as if his angel Babelfish had just presented him with "My saxophone is velvet at your unicorn," and he's wondering which words, if any, are correct, and if the overall meaning is something dirty.

"Come on, Cas, let's go upstairs. And pay no attention to the idiot who's related to me."

/-/-/

_To be continued_

/-/-/


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, with special emphasis on Episodes 4 (The End) and 10 (Abandon All Hope)

**Warnings:** harsh language

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Chapter 3.**

Light shines on Dean's face, waking him, and even without opening his eyes, he can tell it's the white haze that signals a South Dakota winter morning. He's warm and comfortable right where he is (_couch, his brain informs him sleepily_), and he could almost fall back into deep slumber, except for the fact that his bladder is screaming at him and his mouth is dry and tastes of old sweatsocks.

Throwing back the heavy blanket, he shivers in the suddenly chilly air and stumbles up the staircase, guided to the bathroom more by habit than sight. After a long, satisfying piss, and the manipulation of soap, washcloth, and toothbrush, he's awake enough to feel the childlike pleasure of knowing it's Christmas morning. Which is fucking weird, considering how most of his Christmas mornings had sucked ass. Guess some habits just refuse to die.

_Like this one,_ he grins to himself as he approaches the bedroom door. Sam is snoring up a storm, and the thought of his little brother sleeping peacefully is all the incentive Dean needs to kick the door open and land on Sam's bed with a "Hyah!"

Sam flails, emitting something between a snort and a shriek as Dean pokes him in all his ticklish spots. "Jesus Christ, Dean!" he yells, struggling to smack his brother's hands away.

"That's right, Sammy—it's Christmas morning. Rise and shine!"

Sam succeeds in dislodging Dean and curls into a fetal bundle, pulling the covers over his head. "Wanna sleep."

Dean rolls off the bed, then kicks the frame hard. "No doin', princess. Don't you want to see what Santa brought you?"

"Severed body parts, probably," Sam says from inside his cocoon, trailing off into complaints about pagan gods and bastard older brothers.

"Get your ass downstairs in ten. Seeing how it's Christmas, I'll even make the coffee." Dean doesn't respond to the muttered insults following him out of Sam's room, because he's seized by a sudden worrying thought.

He didn't recall stumbling over any angels on his way to the bathroom. Not that his eyes were working at full capacity, the lids being somewhat stuck together, but even in his half-conscious state, he thinks he would've noticed holy tax accountant-shaped objects in the immediate vicinity.

Dean gives a quick glance around the living room before entering the kitchen—yep, still angel-free. Which is weird, because he thought Cas had agreed to spend the night. Not that it was a thrilling experience; they'd pretty much just sat and talked about nothing in particular (well, Dean did most of the talking, as usual), Cas in the armchair and Dean on the couch, until the talk trailed off into silence. Although he'd never admit it, Dean had enjoyed sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree (lights repaired courtesy of Sam and the electrical tape), just soaking up the silence and peace for the first time in a long time…a very long time.

So there's no reason for him to be irritated this morning, but he can't seem to stop himself from stomping into the kitchen and banging the cabinet doors, shoving aside the typical bachelor hunter's assortment of "spices": table salt, sugar, black pepper, and chili powder—until he finally locates the small orange box of chicory hidden in the back. Missouri had taught Dean that a couple of spoonfuls of chicory in the coffee basket would smooth out the harshest brew, taking away most of the bitterness and none of the strength, so he'd secreted a box in Bobby's kitchen for those rare times when he had access to a real coffee maker.

The routine of coffee-making calms him, and he thinks over what's troubling him about Castiel's absence. His brain clears: the wards, of course. Dean had offered to break the angel wards to let Castiel out last night if he wanted, and Castiel had gently refused. So if Dean didn't let him out, who did?

Curiosity compels him to make his way to the old storeroom in the back, the one they'd had to convert to a bedroom when Bobby had become wheelchair-bound. Maybe Bobby let Cas out of the house, or at least knows where he's gone.

Bobby's irate shout tells Dean that he guessed right.

"…didn't need any goddamn help, especially not from you!"

"You were on the floor." Castiel is using his uninflected 'I'm just giving you the facts' tone—and if Dean knows Bobby, it's like touching a spark to tinderwood.

"So I was on the goddamn floor! You have any idea how many times that happens to me each week? If I had to count on an angel to help me out, I'd be wallowing in my own shit every day!"

Dean interrupts the escalating argument by tapping on the door. "Hey, no bloodshed allowed on Christmas; them's the rules." His smile falters when he catches sight of Bobby glaring up at Castiel.

His friend looks old, almost as beaten down as when they'd told him of Jo and Ellen's deaths. He is canted awkwardly to one side in his wheelchair, hat askew, ratty bathrobe twisted and gaping open around bare, knobby knees. Worst of all, he has two spots of color high on his cheeks that Dean recognizes as a flush of shame.

Anger rushes through him on Bobby's behalf. The man is humiliated by his circumstances, and Cas, helpful as he's apparently been, doesn't get it. It's not that Dean is exactly conversant with the daily struggles and indignities of a paraplegic's life, but he remembers enough of being trapped, bound to the rack and unable to move, feeling helpless, useless…

He's just about to say something scathing to Castiel when the angel speaks up.

"It was my mistake." He subtly moves between Bobby and Dean, blocking Dean's view as Bobby tries to adjust his bathrobe to a more modest position. "I came into Bobby's room and…startled him, then… accidentally moved his chair as he was getting out of bed. I apologize."

Cas is a fucking terrible liar, all hesitance and sideways glances, but it doesn't matter, because it works. Bobby's high color dies down and he sits straighter in his wheelchair, adjusting his hat and adopting his usual comfortable scowl. "Just see it don't happen again, boy," he growls, but Dean can hear the almost-affection beneath the threat.

"So anyway," Dean says before he starts doing something stupid-girly, "I need your help, Bobby, or breakfast is gonna end up being The Nightmare _On_ Christmas."

"Don't tell me you don't know how to crack a few eggs, ya damn chucklehead."

"Oh, sure, I know how to crack them—it's getting those little bits of shell out of the bowl that's the problem."

Bobby huffs in impatience. "Just give a man some privacy to get dressed, then I'll come out to save your sorry asses. Don't know how you boys manage on your own," he grumbles as he wheels toward his new attached bathroom.

Dean grins as he throws an arm around Castiel's shoulders, leading him out of Bobby's room. "Just wait until you taste Bobby's special scrambled eggs," he promises, and tries not to think too deep on how the most empathetic person toward a disabled old hunter may be a warrior angel who is losing his powers.

/-/-/

If there's anything Dean loves, it's the buttery aftertaste of Bobby's scrambled eggs chased by the strongest, smoothest coffee in at least five states. Even Sam had raised his eyebrows in pleased surprise after an experimental sip, foregoing the usual three pints of milk he dumps in the diner versions. They're all sprawled around Bobby's living room in various states of food coma (except for Cas, who is as bright-eyed as ever), nursing large mugs of Dean's brew, their eyes fixed on the hypnotic motion of the antique bubble lights decorating the Christmas tree.

Any other year, Dean would be practically purring with pleasure, but there's a difference this time. The phone is markedly silent, as it will be every Christmas morning hereafter, and he feels its absence like a burning ache in his chest.

.

"_Hey, cowboy." The voice on the phone is whiskey and velvet, hands-down the sexiest growl Dean has ever heard from any woman. "What'd Santa put in your saddlebags this year?"_

"_Nothin' I can tell a lady," and there it is, the full, throaty laugh that makes him and every other man in hearing distance sit up and take notice._

"_Porn again? Here I'd thought you'd be getting bored of that by now."_

"_Can't mess with the classics, Ellen; that's why I never tried to mess with you."_

"_Whelp!" That laugh again. "You just know when you're outclassed. You want to say hi to Jo?"_

_.  
_

The pain is sharp and sudden, hard, twisting knots in his chest and throat. He'd never said good-bye to her, not really. It was bad enough with Jo, that last kiss aching with all the might-have-beens between them, but at least they'd had the chance to say what they'd needed to. But Ellen—her decision was too fast, too shocking _(though he shouldn't've been shocked, not really; how could he expect her to ever leave Jo behind?), _so while she'd given him her last words, he'd just stood there, numb and hurting until he was forced to flee.

He blinks, forcing back the salt sting behind his eyes before stealing a quick look at his companions. Bobby's scowling into his coffee cup, while Sam is still gazing at the bubble lights, his expression melancholy instead of content. They're all feeling it, Dean knows, all listening for the call that will never come.

There's movement in the corner of his eye, and he glances over to see that Castiel has turned his head and is staring straight at him. It's the same look Castiel wore in the Impala right after their confrontation with Raphael: serious, almost grim, but Dean can read the question behind his eyes.

_Are you all right?_

Under that gaze, he can't be anything less than honest. _No. No, I'm not. But I think I will be._

Castiel gives the slightest dip of his chin in acknowledgment, and that's it, silent conversation over. Except that Dean somehow feels better—not exactly happy; hell, not even close to past mourning, but nonetheless, he feels stronger. As if they're in this dark tunnel without even a hint of daylight, but he thinks there could be some up ahead, maybe around the next bend.

Or as if she's still with them, urging them on.

_And Dean? Kick it in the ass._

Yes, ma'am.

He claps his hands, startling his companions. "All right, it's finally swag time. Let's see what you all got me, seeing as I was a very good boy this year."

Sam snorts while Bobby mutters into his beard, but at least they're looking a bit livelier now. Dean stoops down by the tree and starts handing out bundles wrapped in newspaper or wrinkled, used giftwrap. Soon the room is filled with the sound of tearing paper and the occasional grunt of satisfaction or surprise.

"Hey, Busty Asian Beauties, the Triple X Christmas Double Edition! Dude!"

"It's practically tradition, Dean. Hey, look inside the magazine."

"You don't have to ask twice!" Dean pages rapidly to the centerfold—and a length of silver chain slides out. "What's this?"

"It's a hunter's bracelet," Sam says, and he sounds almost embarrassed. "We got Rufus to cough up the design and some charms—see, that one's for revenants, and that one disarms poltergeists—"

"And this one?" Dean points at a tiny gold sword of exquisite workmanship, with intricate filigree flames licking along its edge.

"From Bobby's chess set, the one he keeps under glass," Sam explains, and Bobby humphs in irritation.

"Bobby." Dean frowns at him, uncomfortable with the image of Bobby hacking away at his prized possessions for his sake.

"Don't be giving me that look, boy. Thing's of more use there than gatherin' dust in some broken-down old house. Chess set's not worth much, anyway."

"Twelfth century, Aquitaine." Castiel has approached and is peering over Dean's shoulder at the charm. "It has power. A good gift," he nods at Bobby.

"I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, Wings, but thanks for the angelic stamp of approval!"

"You're welcome," Castiel replies serenely, and Dean swears he's yanking Bobby's chain on purpose.

A crackle of newspaper precedes Sam's sharp intake of breath. "Guys!" He holds up an iPhone. "I thought we'd agreed not to spend too much."

"Relax, Sammy, that's an ebay bargain. Sixteen gigs, 3G service, and it's unlocked, which I guess is a good thing."

"Yeah, a really good thing." Sam's already fussing with the touch screen in full-on geek mode, almost humming with excitement. "Hey, it's registered in Bobby's name. Bobby—"

"Don't you start with me. Phone bill's gotta go somewhere; might as well be here. Anyways, you're out in the ass-end of nowhere more times than not, so this way, you can keep up with the Internet. I'm getting too old to be doing all the research by myself." Bobby scowls at the frankly skeptical looks on Sam and Dean's faces, and brandishes a bottle of Glenlivet XXV, shreds of newspaper still clinging to its label. "You boys got no room to talk about overspending. This here Scotch ain't exactly a Walmart special!"

"I thought you didn't want him to have alcoholic beverages," Castiel says to Dean _sotto voce_, which in his case is loud enough to be overheard by everyone.

"Listen, Wings, you and those boys have my official permission to kick my ass if you catch me guzzling this stuff down like cheap rye! Man who can't nurse two fingers of this for at least an hour ain't worthy of the name." Bobby pulls three envelopes from the pouch attached to his wheelchair, and flings one after the other at Sam, Dean, and Castiel. "Think fast!"

Dean and Sam tear their envelopes open, while Castiel carefully unsticks the glued down flap. "Hey, Bobby! Visa Cards with picture ID—how'd you do that?" Sam holds up a credit card with his photo attached.

"None of your business. Them cards got 10K each, so make sure your idjit brother don't spend his limit on porn."

Dean leans over to get a look at Castiel's card, which is adorned with the same photo Dean used for his fake FBI badge. He'd wondered why Bobby had asked him for it a few weeks ago. "Casimir Malak? A Polish-Arabic name is kind of noticeable, don't you think?"

"Everyone's a critic," Bobby grumbles. "Look, genius, most folks in this part of the country wouldn't know Arabic if it bit 'em in the ass. They'll take one look at the name and another at your angel and figure Eastern European, and that'll be the end of it."

Dean can't help sneaking a look at Castiel's chiseled features. Eastern European, huh. He'd never really thought about it, but then again, Cas's vessel had been Jimmy Novak. Duh.

It suddenly strikes him that the only gift in front of Castiel is the card Bobby gave him. _Typical,_ he rants at himself. _Spent time shopping for Bobby and Sam, and it never crossed your mind to get anything for Cas. _Sometimes he wishes he could clone himself, just so he could kick his own ass.

"Dean," warns Castiel, but before they can get into one of their stupid arguments about self-recrimination, a fancy-wrapped box lands in Castiel's lap.

"From me and Dean," says Sam. "We hope you like it," and Dean could kiss his little brother, he really could.

Or not. Yuck.

Castiel unwraps the paper as if he's unwrapping the Lost Ark of the Covenant. The box is labeled Nordstrom's, and Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam, who raises one right back at him. Yeah, Sam's gonna hold this over his head for a while.

Meanwhile, Castiel is lifting out a cream wool scarf from thin sheets of tissue paper and holding it reverently in front of him.

"You're supposed to put it around your neck," Sam offers, and helps him to do so. It matches perfectly, and sort of classes up the tax accountant ensemble. "It's cashmere, a type of wool—"

"—gathered from Kashmiri goats in the mountains of West Asia," Castiel finishes. "Wool such as this was offered millennia ago in sacrifices to my Father. Thank you, Sam and Dean; I'm honored by this gift."

Sometimes it's awesome having a metrosexual brother. Of course, Dean can't say so out loud, being that he now owes Sam big time. He flashes a subtle thumbs-up at his brother, until he's distracted by Castiel stroking the scarf as it lies against his chest.

Before he realizes it, he's on the couch next to Castiel, tucking the ends of the scarf into his trench coat. "Here, this is the way you do it," and the material is so soft, so unbelievably soft, like fuzzy silk as it rests warm over the angel's heart. Hypnotic blue eyes stare into his, and he can't help staring back, until…

Is he having a moment here with Cas? Right in front of Bobby and his brother?

Dean flinches back and returns quickly to his former spot on the floor. "Huh, so anyway…" and chances a surreptitious look around the room. Bobby is focused on his bottle of Scotch, glaring at the label as if he's going to be given a quiz on the contents, while Sam is looking over at the Christmas tree, lips pursed together as if he's about to start whistling innocently.

Oh yeah, Dean's gonna end up paying for that scarf for a long, long time.

"I have something for you as well," Castiel says, and stoops before the tree to draw out several packages from their hiding place near the wall. He hands two gold-wrapped packages to Bobby, one large and one small, one medium package to Sam, and the smallest one to Dean.

Bobby grunts in acknowledgment and tears the paper from the larger gift. It's an antique apothecary's case, the lid lifting to reveal several foldaway shelves and compartments. Bobby's eyes light up as he lifts out small vials containing amber liquids and golden oils, and tiny wooden boxes holding pungent powders, flakes of silver or gold leaf, or just a few strands of mysterious hairs. "Is that—?" he asks excitedly.

"Yes. It seemed wise under the circumstances to augment your supply inventory." Castiel's voice has its usual uninflected tone, but he doesn't fool Dean. He knows damn well that this took more than just a simple shopping trip for Cas; Bobby's as happy as, well, a kid on Christmas morning, and that means there must be things in the case that Bobby had probably only read about in spellbooks.

The old hunter has already started tearing at his second package, when—

"Stop." Castiel lays his hand on top of Bobby's. "It would be better to wait for some time before opening this one: a few months, perhaps. You'll appreciate it more."

Dean catches a glimpse of a wooden frame, the corner of a black-and-white photograph…oh. Oh.

Bobby lifts a trembling hand away from the package, smoothing the torn paper back over the object before tucking it away in his chair pouch. "Yeah. Well," he says gruffly, "thanks anyway, son."

Dean's getting that girly feeling in his chest again, so he quickly turns toward his brother. "Whatcha got there, Sam?"

Sam's paging through a large, leather-bound book, its leaves edged with gold and its ornate text interlaced with brilliant illustrations. His eyes grow huge with wonder. "Cas, is this what I think it is?"

"Yes."

Sam looks as if he might cry or pass out, but can't decide which. Dean snaps his fingers under his brother's nose. "Hey, Earth to Geek. Spill. What's so special about this fancy-pants book?"

Bobby is edging as close as he can in his wheelchair. "Chucklehead! That's a Gutenberg Bible! There're only twenty or so intact copies in existence; do you have any idea what they're worth?"

"Nothing." Castiel is looking off into the distance, his jaw tight. "In a world scorched to ashes, a Gutenberg Bible will be worth exactly nothing." His gaze snaps back to Sam. "So your task is to study this Bible and help find a way to stop the Apocalypse. Turn to the last page."

Sam does as ordered, his fingers trembling. There, burnt into the back cover, is the outline of a strange, featherlike object. It's almost ten inches long, and has a typical shaft with barbs radiating outward, but the barbs appear crystalline instead of organic. Faint, wavy lines scry out from the feather imprint, like lines of energy or electricity.

"This is yours, right?" Sam asks in a hushed whisper.

Castiel shrugs. "It's equivalent to what humans call a pinfeather," and Dean thinks, yeah, if that's a pinfeather, then Cas's wings are a hell of a lot bigger than the shadows he'd revealed to Dean in the barn.

And this tight feeling in his chest has nothing to do with jealousy, 'cause he's not jealous that Cas gave an angel feather to Sam and not to him, even if he is the one that Cas pulled from Hell. Plus it's not even a real angel feather but just a sort of picture of his feather (probably to avoid that whole "You'll burn your eyes out" aspect), and Dean's sure that whatever gift Cas has given him is ten times cooler than the one he gave Sam.

And if he doesn't stop whining like a sulky six-year-old, he's gonna shoot himself in the head and put them all out of their misery.

So, in the interest of avoiding suicidal holiday violence, Dean starts tearing the gold wrapping paper from his gift, which is shaped suspiciously like a jeweler's box from one of those annoying mall jewelers, only to reveal—

—a jeweler's box from one of those annoying mall jewelers.

Huh. Weird.

Not to worry, though, since Cas has probably put something really cool inside like…like—oh, hell, just open it already!

He flips the attached lid up, getting a brief impression of a white silk lining and velvet backboard, and—

Um.

Dean's only taken aback for about a second, but he's sure that Sam is pointing his cell phone camera to catch his WTF expression. Hey, look, no one can say that Dean's not a good sport (_even if he is somewhat disappointed_), and anyway, Cas is sure to produce his real gift any minute now. But in the meantime, Dean shoots a smartass grin at his brother, the probable mastermind behind this joke. "Good one, Sam—but remember, now I owe you. It's on, bitch!"

Except Sam isn't pointing his camera and laughing; he's frowning at Dean in a confused way, while Bobby is looking at him from beneath his hat brim with one eyebrow raised.

"The gift isn't from Sam. It's from me," Castiel explains patiently, as if Dean is too feeble-minded to remember who handed the box to him. He's looking into Dean's face with his laser stare, the one that makes Dean feel as if Cas is trying to see into his brain by way of his left nostril. "I regret I can't return your amulet yet, so I thought to purchase a new one for you."

Suddenly Dean gets it.

Oh.

_Fuck._

But it's too late, because Sam can't restrain his curiosity and is looming over Dean's shoulder to peer into the box. A wide grin breaks across his features. "Dude!"

"Sam," warns Dean, because Castiel is starting to look uncertain.

"You don't want it?" the angel asks, and that's it, Sam can't contain his hilarity any longer.

"No, Cas, he wants it, all right. Dean's wanted one of those ever since he was a little girl!"

Dean knows that Sam is just reacting to his own initial reaction and taking advantage of an opportunity to mock his older brother. But he still feels like strangling Sam, especially when Castiel draws back into his stiff, military stance.

"My apologies. The amulet is inappropriate. I will find something else for you, Dean. If you will please break the sigils—" Castiel is reaching for the box, and the pressure is building again in Dean's ears, and—

He can see it all, that brief flash of hurt in Castiel's eyes, quickly suppressed beneath his usual impassivity as he absorbs yet another of Dean's small cruelties: _Dean's,_ not Sam's, since Dean was the first to treat his gift as a joke. And he can see Castiel's trip to the mall, braving the confusing crush of humanity in order to find a gift to soothe his charge's sense of loss, asking strangers to direct him to where he can find a suitable amulet. And there's someone behind the counter at the jeweler's: male, female, it doesn't matter which, because all they see when they look at Castiel is an awkward man in an oversized trench coat who doesn't smile and doesn't blink and phrases his sentences with odd pauses between words. And that salesperson sells Cas the wrong type of jewelry on purpose, because small cruelties don't count when they're visited upon people who miss social cues, who are tagged with the casual insults of _weirdo_ or _freak_ or _retard._

And not once does that asshole behind the counter realize that what he is facing is an Angel of the Freaking Lord, the only true Angel as far as Dean is concerned, whose glory would burn the eyes from the bastard's head if he so chose. Instead, this angel has chosen to give his life to protect humanity, even its most miserable, sniveling components, and stranger than that, he's chosen to give his friendship to an ungrateful ass who throws it back more often than not. And this angel won't stop giving, won't stop following this man even into Hell, even if he ends up dragged down to the lowest levels of existence.

"No," says Dean, his fingers tightening on the velvet box. "No, I won't break the sigils, and I won't let you take back my gift."

Castiel withdraws his hand and tilts his head to one side. Dean can feel the silence heavy in the room but he doesn't care, because he finally realizes what is important, and it's not his fucking male ego.

"It's true," he starts, then has to stop and lick his lips, because these words are too important to let dry in his throat. "It's true what Sam implied: in the past, I probably wouldn't've chosen this, um, amulet for myself. But things change—people change, and now I want this." _Because you gave it to me._

Dean hopes Castiel can hear that last part, because his throat is tight, and he doesn't think he can say another word. Castiel stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly—then his expression softens, and he gives a slight nod, subtle and intimate and just for him.

And just like that, Dean can breathe again, and talk and smile again. "Hey, do you even know how this thing works, Cas? 'Cause I do. Here, watch." He lifts the silvery-white chain from the box and carefully picks the elastic fastening from the medallion. The silver-white disk slides apart and splits the golden heart at its center in two. "Now you have to pick which half you want."

"Half?"

"Yeah, half, dummy. It's two amulets now, see? So you can either choose the half that says 'BE FRI' or the one that says, 'ST ENDS'. Come on, make up your mind."

Castiel choose the ST ENDS half of the heart medallion, and frowns at its jagged outline. "There is only one chain."

"Nobody claimed those jewelers were geniuses. But I have an idea." Dean's had this idea, or should he say suspicion_,_ for a while now. He slips his new necklace over his head, then pulls Cas forward by his tie. Pushing the new scarf aside, Dean tugs at Castiel's tie until it lies loose against his chest. He unbuttons the top four buttons of the crisp white shirt and…yeah, he thought so.

Dean carefully lifts the familiar black cord until the horned demon head appears. Castiel is gazing into the distance, seemingly lost in celestial thoughts, but his cheeks seem pinker—oh, yeah, he's definitely blushing. Dean smirks to himself as he takes a penknife from his back pocket and pries open the metal loop at the top of the medallion, then attaches it to the cord, where it nestles next to the demon head. "Good," Dean says. "Now if you find God, He'll see that somebody's got your back." He does up the buttons and reties Castiel's tie, giving it a final tug so that it hangs slightly crooked. He then wraps the scarf back around his neck, tucking the ends in the trench and giving his angel a fond pat on the chest. "All right?"

"Yes." Castiel is giving him the laser stare again, and Dean stares right back. "Yes, I believe I am."

And yeah, they're having another moment here, but it's Christmas, so they're allowed.

As if on cue, Sam coughs in the background. Dean reluctantly turns away from Cas, and—geez, he doesn't think he's seen anything so pitiful since Sam was sixteen and put a scratch on the Impala. His brother is doing a spot-on impression of a puppy that's piddled on the floor: all huge, sad eyes and downturned mouth, sending out waves of emo that practically have their own My Chemical Romance soundtrack.

Honestly, Dean's ready to roll up a newspaper and whack it across Sam's nose just to complete the picture, when he realizes that the puppy look isn't directed at him. Sam brushes past him and comes to a stop before Castiel.

Popcorn. Dean needs popcorn now, so he can properly enjoy the Match of the Century: Giant Emo Puppy Eyes versus Mighty Smitey Expressionless Angel of Doom. If bookies were taking bets, though, he'd have to place his money on his brother, and not out of fraternal loyalty, either.

Dean listens to their conversation with only half an ear, since he's absorbed in the voiceover sports announcements in his head. Sam makes a cautious opening move, testing the waters with a subdued, "blah, blah, blah, sorry if I offended you," but the gambit is neatly countered by Castiel, up a few points with Confused Head Tilt and "you didn't offend me, Sam."

Most normal people would've called it a day at this point, but Dean knows this simple apology/acceptance isn't nearly Oprah enough for his brother, so he's not surprised at all when Sam slips under Castiel's guard with, "blah, blah, just joking around with Dean and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." However, Castiel neatly sidesteps the emo with a simple, "you didn't hurt my feelings, Sam", and Dean begins to wonder if he had backed the wrong horse (and yeah, he knows he's mixing sports metaphors, but fuck it—this is all in his head anyway).

Yet if Sam's anything, he's a fighter, so he picks himself up out of the ropes and goes back to his arsenal, delivering a roundhouse kick in the form of "blah, blah, feel guilty, blah, gave me fancy-schmansy Germanberg-Whatsit Bible, blah, blah, owe you—" and Castiel takes the kick right to the chest, getting sucked in to replying, "But your gift to me was very kind," and this is it; now it's only a matter of time.

However, things take a sudden right turn into danger as Sam's eyes start glistening, and there are choked words like "faith in me" and he's only a tick away from wrapping up Castiel in one of those "You're too precious for this world!" hugs (_which happens to be true of Cas, but that's beside the point_). The danger lies in the height difference between the two and the fact that Castiel's nose is gonna end up in line with Sam's armpit, and Dean can't let something that evil happen to his angel, especially on Christmas morning.

"Okay, girls, break it up," he says brusquely (and part of him wishes he had a referee's whistle). "Stop with the emo before you start cutting yourselves."

This earns him a head tilt from Cas and Bitchface No. 23 from Sam, so yeah, his timing is awesome.

"Shut up, Dean; I wasn't apologizing to you."

"Yeah, and you're done apologizing to anyone else today, either. This show is over."

"Oh, thank Gawd." Bobby's glaring as he peels the foil wrapper from his Glenlivet. "If I hadda watch one more minute of 'As the Apocalypse Turns' in my living room with shitty actors playin idjit characters, I was gonna end up ralphing all over the floor."

_Ralphing?_ Dean mouths to Sam, and gets a confused look and headshake in return.

"You, Winchester Number Two. Get me my good glass tumbler and take it to my room. I'm gonna try to recover with three fingers of Glen, so none of you better disturb me for the next hour, or I _will_ kick your asses, wheelchair or no!"

With that, Bobby turns and wheels rapidly to his sanctuary. Sam scrambles to the kitchen to find the tumbler, then crosses the living room after Bobby.

"Dean." Castiel is stooping by the tree. "I have one more gift for you."

"Cas, you don't have to—"

"Here."

Dean takes the proffered paper bag and looks inside, frowning at the brown, roundish objects within. "What are these?"

"Chestnuts," Castiel replies, and his eyes shine as the corners of his mouth curve gently upward.

/-/-/

_To be continued_

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	4. Chapter 4

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, with special emphasis on Episodes 4 (The End) and 10 (Abandon All Hope)

**Warnings:** harsh language

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Chapter 4. Epilogue**

Looking back, it was a bad idea from the get-go.

Oh, not apocalyptically bad, not on the scale of, "Hey, gang, let's get a gun and go shoot the Devil in the head!" But it was definitely a candidate for Dishonorable Mention in what Bobby has dubbed "The Winchester Idjits Book of Stupid-Ass Stunts That Oughta Get 'Em Killed and Would, But For a Guardian Angel Who Saves Their Sorry Asses, 'Cept He Ain't the Brightest Star in the Night Sky, Neither."

Dean can't exactly argue, since the end result of their not-so-good idea has him out on Bobby's porch applying ice to burns on the angel's hands and face while trying to scrape pasty gunk from the trench coat.

"Dean."

"Yeah, no, shut up." He knows what Castiel's going to say, 'cause the angel said it just two minutes ago, all that bullshit about healing eventually.

_Eventually_ is the key word. Dean's not stupid enough to say it out loud, but he's noticed that nowadays Castiel is taking longer and longer to heal; he can't seem to do the instant fixer-upper he displayed when they first met. So fine, maybe it takes only fifteen minutes to get back to square one, but that's still fifteen minutes of pain Dean doesn't want Cas to suffer.

With that in mind, he tosses the ice over the porch rail and pulls the tube of burn ointment from his pocket, the good prescription stuff with lidocaine in it. He and Sam usually save it for those thankfully rare occasions when one or the other has gotten burned deep enough that he can't sleep (_he'll take a knife cut or concussion any day over the relentless sear of a second-degree burn_). And yeah, he can already picture the bitchface Sam'll be wearing when he finds out Dean used some of their precious stash on a self-healing angel—but fuck him. This was all Sam's fault, anyway.

Okay, to be fair, maybe not all Sam's fault. Dean might've had something to do with it, showing Sam his last gift from Cas and making some joke about classic Christmas songs. But it would've gone nowhere if College Boy hadn't run up to the attic and come back down carrying something that looked like a frying pan attached to a long wooden handle.

.

"_The fuck is that, Sammy?"_

"_It's an antique bed-warmer; I noticed it when I was looking for the Christmas lights. It's missing its lid, but it should still work fine—we can put it in the fire and not burn our hands trying to hold a regular pan."_

"_Like hell! I ain't putting food in somebody's bedpan, I don't care how old it is!"_

"_Bed_-warmer_, Dean, not bedpan. People used to put hot coals in it and run it over their sheets to warm them before going to bed. No central heating back then."_

"_Okay, fine. But only if you're sure no one ever used this thing to take a crap in."_

_.  
_

Except it wasn't fine, 'cause look what happened. Fuck Sam and his fucking enabling of Dean's stupid-ass ideas.

"Dean."

"Unh-uh," Dean grunts around the tube cap clenched in his teeth as he carefully smoothes the ointment over the large blister on the back of Castiel's hand.

"This wasn't Sam's fault."

Okay, fine, it wasn't Sam's fault. All the same, somebody should've put a stop to this before it went too far, somebody who knew what was what. Like Bobby, for instance. If only he'd come out of his room even five minutes earlier, he could've prevented the entire clusterfuck. Instead, he'd arrived just in time for all hell to break loose.

.

"_So what're you chuckleheads up to? Been too damn quiet in here, and that always spells trouble with you boys."_

_Sam grins, balancing the bedwarmer handle on one knee as he stoops before the fireplace, Castiel at his left shoulder. "Hey, Bobby, you came in two minutes too early. We were hoping to surprise you." He shakes the bedwarmer, rattling its contents._

_Bobby squints suspiciously, craning his neck to look at the pan. "Whaddaya got there, popcorn? Need a lid if you don't want it all landing in the fire."_

"_Better than that! Cas got me real chestnuts, so we're roasting them." Dean picks up a newspaper from the tinder box, rolls it into a cylinder, and croons into it like a microphone, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Blah, blah-blah-blah, some shit words I forgot, and folks dressed up like Eskimos…"_

"_Michael Buble won't be losing any sleep tonight," snarks Sam, for which he gets the newspaper microphone bounced off his head. "Jerk!"_

"_You're just jealous of my fine and sexy singing voice. Hey, are those things done yet? I think I can hear them sizzling."_

_Bobby leans back in his chair. "Shouldn't be long, then. Damn, been a while since I ate roasted chestnuts—not since I was a whelp. Used ta beg my mom to let me make the cuts in the shells, but she didn't let me handle a knife till I was older. Just as well—slippery little buggers, chestnuts. You manage to get away with all fingers intact, or did Wings here magick the shells for you?"_

_Three identical looks of confusion are directed at Bobby. "What are you talking about?"_

_Bobby's eyes widen with horror. "Didn't you make cuts in the shells to let the steam escape?" Met with blank looks, he grabs the wheels of his chair and moves rapidly backwards. "You muttonheaded, featherpated, dimwitted numbskulls! You got serious ordnance in that pan there!" _

_At that moment, there is a loud popping sound, and a round missile escapes the fireplace to impact hard against the lapel of Castiel's coat._

_Suddenly, everything's a flurry of motion: chestnut shrapnel exploding across the room, a dropped bed-warmer, Sam ducking and running, Bobby roaring, "My BOOKS!"—and a blur of tan trenchcoat that manages to be everywhere at once: at the fireplace; in front of Dean, shielding him; pushing Bobby's chair into the safety of the hallway; grabbing the pan from the flames—_

_A voice sounds in his head, "Dean, the sigils!" and he swipes his elbow to break the lines. After that, there's a blast of frosty air accompanied by the muffled reports of the remaining chestnuts as they explode in the snow outside, and—_

_.  
_

—here they are. There's an angry red mark right on Castiel's cheekbone, way too close to his eye for comfort, but even as Dean fumbles with the ointment, it fades away. For some reason, this act of self-healing adds to Dean's frustration instead of soothing it, because at least he'd felt halfway useful for the past few minutes. It's yet another example of timing gone wrong; none of this had to happen at all if only—

"Dean."

Dean scowls as he recaps the tube and slides it in his pocket. "Fine, it's not Bobby's fault, either. So who does that leave? Oh, wait—what a surprise! The Daily Fuck-up Award once again goes to our perennial champ—"

"Stop." Castiel's hand clamps down on Dean's wrist hard enough to hurt. "You're…boring me."

Somehow that statement made in the usual gravelly monotone hits Dean just the right way, and he's startled out of his dark mood into a snort of laughter. "Fine, dude, message received. God forbid I should harsh your party squee. Rock on, Garth!"

Okay, wait for it, _wait for it_…

The lips part, the eyes cut sideways, and _yes!_ Another stick in the spokes of angel Babelfish. Sometimes Dean wonders if he's turning himself into a babbling font of pop-culture references just for the pleasure of eliciting that expression from his angel…uh, the angel. Cas. Whatever.

Surprisingly, Castiel's confused expression morphs into a casual shrug. "You didn't harsh my squee, Dean. I've enjoyed this Christmas very much."

Dean blinks. "Dude. You got that?"

"Yes. I've broadened my cultural references to encompass those of a human twenty years older than you, and ten years younger. Although I'm not certain why." Castiel loosens his grip on Dean's wrist but doesn't let go.

Dean feels his face heat up. "Cable reruns, man. Let's leave it at that." He ought to pull his hand away from Castiel but doesn't, taking comfort in the warmth of his long fingers. "So, you, uh, liked Christmas, then? Deadly exploding chestnuts and all?" He uses his free hand to scratch idly at some residue stuck on Castiel's lapel, residue that disappears even as he touches it.

"Yes, deadly exploding chestnuts and all." Castiel's eyes shine. "I believe you have an expression: some day, we will look back on this and laugh."

"You really think we'll get the chance?"

"Have faith, Dean."

And maybe it's the ridiculous memory of him and Sam running around screaming under the onslaught of flying nut products, or the sound of Bobby's blistering diatribe on the essential fucknuttery of "idjits who damage my goddamn books!" …or maybe the image of Castiel placing himself between Dean and harm once again, or just the lingering warmth of the angel's hand even after he has released his wrist…maybe it's any one of these or all of them put together that ignite a tiny flare in Dean's chest—not faith, nothing that strong or certain, but just a spark of hope that somehow they'll all make it through in the end.

"C'mon," he tugs at Castiel's sleeve, "let's get back inside and repaint the sigils. Don't need any gatecrashers at our family celebration."

Castiel's expression softens for a moment before it resolves into determination tinged with regret. "Since I'm outside now, I should go."

"Already?" The protest slips out before he can catch it, but yeah, Dean's pretty sure he's exceeded the Maximum Allowable Chick-Flick Moments Per Sentimental Holiday, so he reels in his disappointment and mans up. "I mean, sure. Gotta strike while the iron's hot. All that singing and praying going on; Big Guy's probably out and about today."

"I have no idea," Castiel confesses, "but I have to hope."

For the first time, Dean wonders what Castiel's quest must be like. He imagines the angel moving through crowds of people who are begging for God's attention even as a manifestation of Heaven walks unnoticed in their midst. He pictures Cas windblown on snowy, jagged mountaintops, pacing restlessly through arid deserts, standing silent and watchful in old growth forests—vigilant, focused, and always, always alone.

"Hey," he rasps, and places a hand on Castiel's lapel, pulling him a little closer, "before you go, there's something I gotta say." He keeps his eyes on the scarf he's adjusting, its soft folds pristine once more, like the trench coat and everything else about Castiel. "Most of my life, it was just me, my dad, and Sam. Nobody else ever really stuck around, or maybe it was us who never stuck to anybody… Then I lost my dad, and all I asked was, just let me keep Sam. If I could have Sam until the end, I'd be all right."

Dean releases the scarf and forces his gaze up to meet calm blue eyes. "You know how that worked out for me; it's where you came in. And ever since then, things have…" he spreads his hands. "And Sam's still at the center of things, but there's Bobby, too, and Ellen and Jo once but not anymore. And you. And that thing I used to think, about being all right with only Sam—now I'm not so sure."

Castiel is staring again, eyes slightly squinted like when he doesn't quite understand something but really, really wants to. Dean takes pity on him (_he didn't mean to play Confuse an Angel this time),_ so he cuts to the chase. "What I'm saying is, be careful out there, 'kay? Watch out for dicks with wings or demon bitches or even speeding trucks or shit like that. 'Cause it's important to me that you…it's important."

And Dean really hopes Cas doesn't give him Confused Head Tilt, 'cause he can feel heat creeping up his neck in spite of the cold, and he doesn't think he could repeat any of that even on a bet.

To his relief, Castiel does his smile thing where his eyes light up, giving the impression that he's beaming even though his mouth barely moves. "I will," he says, and the words spoken in that low, serious voice sound like a promise. "You take care as well. You're…important, too."

Okay, Dean's neck is practically on fire, and he's fairly certain that additional declarations in this vein would veer awfully close to ministers and vows and exchange of rings_ (not to mention Sam laughing his ass off if he were to overhear any of it), _so he coughs and changes the subject. "So, um, anyway, good luck hunting. And listen, maybe tonight you'll be busy cracking a few beers with your old man—but if that doesn't pan out, you're welcome to rejoin the party here. Probably just Chinese food and dumb movies, but we'd be, uh, glad to have you."

"Thank you, Dean," and there's another of Castiel's "beaming smiles" _(someday, Dean swears, he's gonna make Cas show some teeth), _an errant gust of wind, and Dean finds himself alone on the porch between one blink and the next.

He works his jaw a few times until his ears pop, and fights back a curious feeling of loss, 'cause, come on, seriously, he's not a chick. Besides, Cas all but promised he'd be back tonight—maybe, probably—and Dean intends to hold him to his word, even if he has to text him twenty million times.

Still not a chick, though. Shut up.

With that last thought, Dean goes back into the house, leaving the crisp air behind as he's drawn into the warmth inside. He inhales the green, festive scent of the Christmas tree interlaced with the rich fragrance of his coffee from the kitchen, listens to the sound of Bobby grouching comfortably in the living room as Sam replies with his easy laugh, their conversation punctuated by the thump of books being moved around.

He feels the cool press of metal against his chest, thinks about where he got it from, which brings an answering bloom of warmth from deep inside. 'Cause see, he was right:

Most awesome Christmas ever.

/-/-/

The End

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Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this story; you've made a relative newbie to the SPN fandom feel very welcome. A special warm hug to those who reviewed and kept me going in my efforts, even though I fell dreadfully behind in writing and posting the rest of this Christmas story. (Hey, post-Valentine's Day isn't too late, is it? Huh? Huh? :D)


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